The Land of Freedom
by barnesbucky
Summary: America Blackburn is on the run from justice. Utilizing the confusion that has happened because of the Hydra fiasco, she escapes to Washington D.C where she allies herself with the man she calls the Soldier. Will the two fugitives overcome their petty hatred for each other, and learn to love or will they be forever handicapped because of their inability to feel? Bucky/OC.


The clock said 1:30, but America knew it was earlier than that. Her hair could always tell the time, and today, her hair was telling her that the clock was fast. It was 1:29.

Now it was 1:30. America drew herself up and entered the room she had sat beside. Inside there was a man was waiting for her. He greeted America, and bid her sit down in the chair to his left. America sat. The man paced, hands behind his back, his eyes constantly flickering between the wall and America. Finally the man spoke.

"Do you know why you are here?"

America shook her head. Responses could be incriminating, but so could no responses at all.

"And I suppose you don't know why there is a man with 56 stab wounds in his chest, lying in the morgue at St. Bart's, do you?"

America shook her head once more.

The man stopped pacing and sat down, steepling his fingers under his chin. His keen eyes roved Americas face; America knew this man could tear down her walls in a second. There was no room for mistakes. America sat like a stone statue. Her countenance gave away nothing, not the slightest twitch in her eyes or the slightest movement of her hands. Nothing betrayed her.

"We know you killed him, America. Your fingerprints were all over the knife. We have it on tape."  
America didn't even flinch.

"It'll only get worse for you if you don't confess. Just tell me what happened."

America sat stock still, but her mind was busy at work. She had taken the knife with her. She hadn't left it at the scene. And she had replaced the tapes, too. Someone had put it all back. She was in some serious trouble, and she had no idea how to get out of it. Maybe she should just confess. She knew when she was beat. There was no getting around that it was her on the tapes. She should have just burned them, as she had wanted to, but her psychopathic ways demanded that she keep the tapes as evidence. Stupid. Annie had always warned her that if she didn't get over herself she would get caught, and here she was. Stuck in a detective inspector's office with no way out of this mess. Unless...the inspector was bluffing. No one could have known the combination. Maybe they were trying to get her to confess, and then they would reveal that the tapes were still in the safe, and that the knife was buried in her flower garden. Yes, that was it. There was no way they knew it was her. They were just waiting for her to incriminate herself by confessing.

The inspector stared at her. He could see nothing in Americas face. Not the slightest hint of fear. There was nothing to deduce, no signs on guilt on her mask-like countenance. Maybe America had realized that they were bluffing, that they didn't have the tapes and the knives. Or maybe she believed the lie the inspector had fed her, and was working out the best way to worm her way out of the situation she believed herself to be in. There was no telling what America was thinking. She was a psychopath with a mask that nothing could break through, unless she believed what the inspector had told him.

The inspector gestured to the door. "You can go. There's a guard waiting outside. She'll take you to your cell."

America walked down the halls, accompanied by the female guard who had been assigned to guard her. It was only a matter of time before they reached her new accommodations, and so she took action. Stepping out of view of the security cameras, she grabbed the guard by the wrist, she twisted her arm over her head and snapped it down over her shoulder. It hurt her, but it hurt the guard more, and she screamed in pain, cradling her arm as she sank to the ground. America grinned and dragged the guard towards what would have been her cell, still keeping out of sight of the cameras. She used the guard's key card to open the door. She dragged the guard in and then quickly traded their clothes. Closing the door, she walked back the way she came. The cameras saw nothing but a guard passing down the hallways after depositing a dangerous prisoner in his cell. There was almost nothing suspicious about it.

She walked down the hall, grinning. She had escaped, or she was close to it. Her father always said, never count your chickens before they hatch. So far it seemed no one had been alerted to her presence, and she hoped to keep it that way. She used to guard's card to open the door at the end of the hallway. She walked until she came to the next exit and soon she was completely out of the building.

From there she hot-wired a car and drove away. Now she was counting his chickens, and she was endlessly pleased with the results. Of course, when the police realized what had happened, they would bumble around trying to find him, but she would be long gone by then. She would re-recreate herself, spinning a new web a lies that only she could see through. Maybe she would go to America. It was something of a joke to her, although the U.s was a viable option. The police force there was almost as incompetent as Scotland Yard, and she didn't call for a SWAT team. If anything she would join up with a group of deadly assassins and fulfill her bloodlust like that. Then at least her murder would have a cause, or a reason. America didn't kill without reason. The man lying in St. Bart's had murdered Annie, simply because he thought she had cheated on him. America was simply returning the favor. The man had cheated her out of a life with her sister, and he hadn't even been caught. Here she was doing a good deed, ridding the world of a smarmy bastard, and she was getting punished for it.

The world was a messed up place, god damn it, and America wasn't doing any harm bringing a little balance. The only problem was that Scotland Yard thought that revenge was grounds for penalty. If it was without reason, she could see why someone would need to be punished, but her sister had done absolutely nothing.

As America pulled on to the highway, she began to laugh. At first it was just a giggle but soon it evolved into a full-fledged chuckle, and from there it was uncontrollable. Soon she was doubled over and laughing so hard she could barely contain the snorts of laughter that escaped her.

When she recovered herself, she sat up and allowed the giggles to filter out of her system. She would need all of her wits about her if she was going to make it out of the country without being spotted by the police.

First America drove to meet a contact, where she obtained weapons that would enable her to protect herself if the need arose. She cracked open her savings and withdrew all that she could, under an alias of course.

When she had done all that she chartered a plane, this time under the alias of Angelina Rowena.

"So, Ms. Rowena what brings you to America?"

This pilot was chatting up a storm, and they had barely just taken off. America would think that piloting would require concentration that interfered, but this pilot seemed to be able to multitask, talking Americas ears off and at the same time managing to take her to a new country. America was only 20 minutes into the flight, and the man had already asked her multiple questions about her private life and other private subjects, which she was not inclines to talk about. She had half a mind to threaten the pilot into silence, but then he might turn around, and then where would she be. In the hands of the British government, that's where, and that was not somewhere America wanted or planned to be. Instead she popped Lilo and Stitch into the video player and slipped on the headphones. Soon she slipped into the embrace of sleep and didn't hear the pilot for the rest of the flight.

America woke up as the pilot piloted the plane into a private runway in the Dulles Airport. She had chosen Washington D.C as her destination because besides being her hometown, D.C was one of the nicest and easiest cities to hide in since New York, although D.C was marginally safer. America knew the streets of D.C back and forth, from the smallest alleys to largest intersections. She could find a place to hide within seconds, and if she really needed to she could always visit her family. That was not something she wanted to do. The memories of Annie's death were to fresh in her mind for her to venture back home. Not that they would accept her anyway. She was a psychopathic murderer, and her family had always been wary of her. Nothing had changed in 21 years, and to be perfectly frank, America didn't care. As long as she wasn't caught.

As security entered the plane to try and sniff out any drugs or dangerous weapons, America stretched, shaking the stiffness out of her bones. She had been sitting still for almost 8 hours straight, and although she was well rested she was in need of a good run and a hot shower. The security force exited the plane, leaving her in marginal silence. She blocked out the jabbering of the pilot, who probably hadn't stopped speaking the entire ride, and fished her weaponry out from where she had hidden them. She knew it was stupid to bring weapons when she could just buy new ones, but these were top of the line, and there was no telling the next time she would be able to find such good quality. The man who supplied her -god she sounded like a druggie- had access to some of the best weaponry in the world. Too bad he hadn't been able to get hold of the new Stark 103. She would have liked to play with that baby.

America slung everything over her shoulder, refusing everything but the use of the pilots phone. Using it she called the nearest private transportation service, and placed a request for a car that would be inconspicuous. In her situation, she wanted no extra attention. When the taxi arrived she thanked the pilot and silently thanked whatever god there was that the car had arrived so quickly. She was sick and tired of the pilot and she just hoped that the taxi driver wasn't as mouthy. She hated endless chatter. If anyone else tried to talk to her about how severe their erectile dysfunction was, she would stab them in the neck, good reasons be damned.

The taxi driver was a pleasant man who had a wonderful knack for keeping his mouth shut. He silently drove America out of the airport, not even questioning the smell off gunpowder that may or may not have emanated from the largest of America's baggage. For this America was thankful, and the drive to her destination was quick. She paid the driver and exited the car, lugging her bags over to the nearest bench.

It was from here that she began all of her plans, gathering her wits. She reminded herself that she had to conscious of her actions. She may not have been a serial killer -although that pilot would have made her one- but she was sure as hell being looked for. She decided that she needed a fake ID, something that wouldn't attract attention. Just enough to get into a hotel without suspicion. Her current one might be tagged, and she wasn't going to risk it. She slung her bags over her shoulder and began trudging towards the place she knew it was easiest to obtain an ID.

When she entered the dingy apartment, the smell of cigarette smoke overwhelmed her. She coughed and waved her hand in front of her face, hoping to dissipate the disgusting smell. She coughed once more before calling out,

"Ratger? Where are you?"

From the back of the apartment a door slammed and a plump woman emerged, a young child on her hips. She seemed to have a permanent scowl on her face, a feature that did not enhance the pockmarks that dotted her visage. She was an all around unpleasant sight, but she gestured towards the back of the apartment, signalling that America should venture back there. At least the woman seemed to serve some purpose. America would not want to see that there were redundant people hanging around who would be able to deliver information to the police. It would put her entire plan in jeopardy.

Dumping her bags she cast a suspicious look at the woman, who returned it in kind, then continued to bounce the baby on her hips. As America went farther in the apartment, the smoke thickened, and she tried to hold her breath. Knocking on the one door she encountered (the rest were off their hinges) she was bid to enter.

"Come in!"

America entered, cautiously, keeping her knife hand at the ready at all times.

"Ah, Erica, I was just helping this young man out! What is it I can supply you with?"  
Ratger was a man in his late 60's, although he tried to hide this by dressing as though he was 20. His legs were in encased in skinny jeans and his tight t-shirt bearing the Black Sabbath logo did nothing to hide his enormous beer belly. America cringed as she saw his rotted teeth form themselves into a leering smile, but immediately composed her features. She glanced to her right, where she saw the man who she had previously overlooked.

Standing at what seemed to be 5' 11", Ratger's other customer blended into his surroundings, although that was probably what he wanted. Tangled hair framed his face, which seemed to be made of stone. He was dressed in combat clothing, with large, heavy boots encasing his feet and a bloodstained vest covered his torso. His legs were covered in canvas pants which probably held pockets and pockets of weapons that America probably could only dream of carrying. The most remarkable thing about him was his left arm. It seemed to be made completely of metal, with a red star stamped on the shoulder. All in all, this was a man who could snap her in half without even blinking. This was the kind of man she wanted to travel with.

America looked back at Ratger, leveling her gaze.

"Fake ID."

"And what would a nice lass like you need with a fake ID?" Ratger inquired, his teeth stretching into a bizarre approximation of a smile. America didn't even blink. She wasn't about to share dangerous information with this man. He would rat her out just as easily as he would help her.

"If I wanted you to know, I would have told you in the first place."

Ratger closed his mouth abruptly.

"Let me finish with this man first. Then I will help you, if you can pay the price."

He turned to the man dressed in black.

"I will get you your ID, but it'll cost you. $170 dollars."  
"I don't have any money," the man rumbled, his voice low in his throat.

Ratger tutted. "Well, it seems you'll have to come back another day. I only serve customers who are willing to pay the price."  
The man shifted his stance. He looked like a panther, poised to pounce. His hand drifted towards his side, where America saw a handgun strapped. She decided to intervene before this got any bloodier than it had to be.

"Ratger, listen here. We'll take two ID's, one for me, one for my lovely friend in Kevlar here."

Ratger smiled again. It was a good day for business, and if he was lucky, he would have extra information to hand over to the police. They were scrambling, this soon after the incident with Hydra. Ratger knew good information when he saw it; this was bound to pay well.

Ratger left the room, leaving a heavy silence. One look at the man in black told America that he wasn't the sort of guy to start a conversation, so instead she began to speak.

"So, what brings you to Ratger?" America kept her voice light. She didn't want this guy to go all soldier on her; she knew there was no way she would be able to hold her own against him.

He just stood there.

"On the run from the law? Is Captain America chasing you or something?" America joked, a smile plastered on her face.

To her surprise, the man blinked and turned to look at her.

"Excuse me?"

America was stunned. Out of all the lucky guesses in the world, she had landed hit the nail straight on the head.

"I said are you running from Captain America or somethi-" She trailed off as the man gave her a glare that made her slam her mouth and turn in the other direction. She muttered under her breath, "God damn. Ask a simple question and you're suddenly a prisoner of war lined up for the firing squad."

No sooner had she gotten the words out of her mouth then she found herself slammed up against the wall. The man had moved so fast she hadn't even had time to react. Now she was pinned up against the boards that provided support for the roof. Of all the places to die, it had to be here.

The man whispered in such a low voice she could barely even hear him. Her ears strained and made out this.

"I am not someone to be trifled with. Sarcastic comments are not appreciated. I suggest you keep your pretty mouth shut before you find yourself bleeding to death in the alley directly below us."  
Through her confusion America snarled out, "You think I'm pretty?"

The man growled again and pressed her even harder against the wall. Her air was cut off and she scrabbled at his arm. Suddenly he let go of her and she dropped to the floor, massaging her throat. This was not her day.

And this was still the kind of man she needed to travel with.


End file.
